


Moscow

by FlyingMachine



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Douglas and Arthur give detective work a go, Friendship, Gen, Kidnapping, Martin flies a plane against his will, Trauma, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-04-03
Packaged: 2017-12-06 15:23:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlyingMachine/pseuds/FlyingMachine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin is kidnapped by smugglers; Douglas, Arthur and Carolyn must rescue him.</p>
<p>Originally done for a prompt on the Cabin Pressure meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on the meme that called for Martin being kidnapped and abused, with the rest of MJN coming to his rescue.
> 
> Many thanks to my very awesome beta Sath, who took time away from Very Important Research to help me get this fic suitable for public consumption.

_Sunday_

“Well, that was horrible,” Martin said, slumping forward in his seat.

“Truly awful,” Douglas agreed, and Martin cringed as Douglas made a show of cracking his back.

“I am never having children,” Martin said. “My ears are still ringing.”

“Yes, I thought I had a pretty high tolerance for screaming until we hit about hour five,” Douglas said. He looked as tired as Martin felt, with little lines of tension around his eyes and a tight set to his jaw.

“Did your daughter ever scream like that?” Martin asked. 

“Of course she did, but it’s different when they’re yours,” Douglas said. “I can’t blame them though. Captain seemed very indecisive about which altitude he wanted to maintain today.”

Martin rubbed his eyes. His head ached from a combination of the nonstop screaming in the cabin and the lingering pressure in his sinuses from what had been an annoying number of altitude changes. The pressure in his ears had yet to equalize and he still felt off-kilter.

“I can’t control the weather, Douglas. We’re lucky we were even cleared to fly.” As if illustrate Martin’s point, the rain outside began sheeting down again as another thunderstorm rolled in.

The cabin door opened and Arthur poked his head in.

“Alright chaps, everyone’s unloaded,” he shouted. Douglas and Martin flinched at the noise. Arthur gave them a puzzled look.

“Oh, right,” Arthur said, reaching for his ears. “Forgot I had these in.” He removed his earplugs. “I think Mum’s gone deaf. Either that or she’s just ignoring me.”

Martin decided it was probably the latter. Carolyn had looked murderous the last time he had seen her, and he was very glad for the relative safety of the flight deck. Martin got out of his seat and stepped into the cabin, wrinkling his nose at the close, sour smell.

“Ugh,” he said. “What _is_ that?”

“I believe you’ll find that is the smell small children create when locked in a plane for five hours,” Douglas said from behind him.

“Yeah,” Arthur agreed. “Someone got sick all over row D. I tried to clean it up, but then I was going to be sick all over row D.” Arthur made a face.

“Good luck with that, Arthur,” Martin said.

Martin pushed past Arthur and Douglas, desperate for some fresh air. Out on the tarmac, rain lashed him in the face and the wind seemed to cut right through his jacket. He could barely make out the familiar outline of Fitton through the downpour. He looked forward to going home to bed in his quiet attic. Maybe his ears would even stop hurting.

There was still paperwork to do, though, and Martin was certain Douglas wasn’t going to volunteer. Martin hurried into the portacabin before he got soaked and was surprised when Douglas followed him.

“Staying to do your logbooks?” Martin asked. He removed his jacket and hung it over the back of his chair to dry. Douglas was carrying a rather large box that Martin didn’t remember seeing during the flight.

“Sorry to disappoint you, Martin, but no. As it happens, I picked up some rather fine smoked salmon in Nome. Dirk is rather fond of smoked salmon, so fond that he brought me some excellent Cuban cigars as a token of his thanks. I’m just dropping this off for him.” Douglas slid the box under Martin’s desk.

“Oh, is my desk the official dead letter box now?” Martin asked. He wanted nothing to do with Douglas’ smuggling. “Why don’t you use your own desk for these urgent fish deliveries?”

“Tradition,” replied Douglas. “The desk where you now arduously toil at your paperwork used to be mine. When you became its lucky owner, Dirk and I decided not to complicate things by using my new and vastly less spacious desk as a pick-up location.”

“How very convenient for you,” Martin noted. 

“Well, you shouldn’t fix what isn’t broken,” Douglas said. “Have a lovely evening, Captain. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“‘Night,” Martin muttered as Douglas left. 

The portacabin was quiet except for the drumming rain on the roof. It was a welcome change from the screaming sextuplets and their exhausted parents. 

Doing the logbooks helped order Martin’s frazzled mind, and by the time he was done he felt much calmer. The knot of anxiety that had formed under his ribs around the second hour of the flight had nearly gone. It was late, and Martin wasn’t looking forward to the drive home in the pouring rain. The portacabin had a rickety futon in one corner, and Martin decided he could take a short nap, just until he felt awake enough to drive. Then he would go home.The futon was comfortable enough that Martin quickly drifted off, and was sound asleep in minutes.

Martin awoke to the portacabin door slamming open and the sound of Carolyn’s heels on the carpet. It startled him badly enough that he rolled off the futon and landed on the floor. Still half-asleep and disoriented, he squinted as his eyes adjusted to the light. Carolyn was at her desk, rifling through paperwork. She gave him a long look down her nose as he pulled himself upright.

“Martin?” Carolyn asked. “What are you still doing here? Don’t tell me you’ve moved in.”

“What? Oh, no. God no. I was just...finishing the logs,” Martin tried to explain. 

“On the floor?”

“Well, I-I was tired so I thought maybe a short nap would help. Didn’t mean to actually fall asleep. Or fall on the floor,” he added. Martin rubbed his elbow where he’d banged it on the futon. Carolyn frowned.

“Martin, go home. Sleep in a proper bed. Or whatever it is you sleep in. Hangar, maybe,” she instructed sternly, though Martin didn’t miss the hint of fondness in her tone. He pulled himself off of the floor and slowly gathered up his jacket and hat.

“‘Night, Carolyn,” he said.

“Go home, Martin.”

 

Martin’s van looked lonely in the lot, illuminated only by a single yellow lamp. Martin fumbled in his pocket for his keys, fingers clumsy with exhaustion. He thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye. He looked around, but there was nothing to be seen. It must have just been a trick of the light in the rain. 

He had his key in the door when a hand closed over his mouth and something cold pressed against his temple. Martin froze. Reflected in the window was a masked man, holding a gun to Martin’s head.

“You’re coming with me, Captain,” the man rumbled, his voice muffled by the mask. Martin tried to pull away, but the man yanked him backwards so that he stumbled and slipped on the wet pavement. Martin tried to slam his elbow in the man’s gut and he must have partially succeeded, as the man grunted and the gun clattered to the pavement and spun under the van. Martin regained his balance and stamped hard on his attacker’s foot, but this only seemed to annoy his assailant. The man’s hand slipped from Martin’s mouth and he locked his arm around Martin’s throat. He was slammed up against the side of his van, pinned between his attacker and the van door. Martin couldn’t breathe, and he felt his body going slack in his captor’s grasp.

“Let me go!” he gasped. There was no one around to hear him, and he could barely draw enough breath to speak. He struggled, and was rewarded with a punch in the ribs. 

“Be still, and this won’t hurt,” the man said.

Something jabbed him in the arm and Martin looked down to see a needle buried in his bicep. His eyes widened and all he could think about was that he was about to be robbed, and killed, although maybe not in that order. He could already feel his muscles relaxing. His vision blurred, then tilted sideways as his knees buckled. He slid down the side of van, falling limply onto the wet pavement. It didn’t hurt very much, and Martin knew there was something very wrong about that. The ground was cold under his cheek. A pair of handcuffs flashed in his line of sight, and his vision tunneled down to blackness.


	2. Chapter 2

Martin woke to a pounding headache and near-total darkness. The sense of blindness sent him into a panic and he tried to lift his hand to pull off the blindfold. Cold metal dug into his wrists and he realized that he was handcuffed to a metal bar. He couldn’t sit up, he could barely move at all. His pulse echoed in his ears as he sucked in fast, shallow breaths. 

Martin knew he needed to calm himself and clear his head so that he could rationally assess his situation. He tried to find something to focus on that wasn’t the pull of his restraints or the fact that he couldn’t see beyond a thin band of light around the edges of the blindfold. He concentrated on the sounds around him and they seemed familiar, but he didn’t know why. He had a sense that he was moving, but there was no sound of a car engine or swaying of a train carriage. 

He tried to remember what had happened before he’d fallen asleep but his memories were vague and blurry. It frightened him that he had no idea where he was or how he had gotten there. He felt anxiety welling up in his chest, so intense it was nearly unbearable. It tightened around his ribs until he could only pull in ragged, gasping breaths. Martin knew he was moments away from a full-blown panic attack unless he managed to calm down.

He forced himself to envision a mental checklist of all the things he would do before getting ready for takeoff, despite the fact that he wanted to scream and thrash against his restraints. He pulled in a deep breath with every item on his checklist and let it out slowly. By the time he’d gotten to _flight controls-- free and correct,_ his blood pressure had gone down and he no longer felt like a 747 had landed on his chest.

He continued his deep breathing and once again focused on his surroundings.The floor shuddered slightly beneath him, distracting him momentarily from his barely-suppressed panic. It was a familiar sensation, and Martin realized with horror exactly where he was. 

He was flying.

 

_Monday_

Douglas opened the portacabin door and looked around, fully expecting a chiding from Martin for his usual lateness. Instead, he found Carolyn sitting at her desk impatiently checking her e-mail and Arthur sprawled on the futon fiddling with his phone. Martin was nowhere in sight. At the sound of the door opening, Carolyn turned around and she fixed Douglas with a hard glare.

“Well at least one of you decided to show up today,” she snapped. “Are you trading off shifts now?”

“Carolyn, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m no later than usual. It’s not as though we’ll be leaving on time anyway; Mrs. Herrington would be late to her own funeral. Isn’t Martin here?” Douglas asked.

“No, he’s not,” Carolyn replied. “He hasn’t called, he’s not here, and we’re supposed to leave in forty-five minutes.” Carolyn was furious, but Douglas had known her too long to miss the undertone of concern in her anger. 

“Martin’s late? And didn’t call? Or send a carrier pigeon?” Douglas asked, incredulous. 

“No, not a word,” Carolyn said. “I’ve tried to phone him twice and he didn’t pick up.”

“I keep texting him and he doesn’t answer those either,” said Arthur. “He always answers. Even when I accidentally send him blank ones. Then he just sends me back question marks. And he finally got a new phone after his old one fell in the hot tub at the hotel last week, so I know he’s getting them. He was all excited because he finally got a smartphone.”

Douglas frowned. “That’s strange. His van’s still in the lot. Didn’t he go home last night?”

“I sent him home after he fell asleep in here,” Carolyn said. 

“Maybe he walked?” suggested Arthur.

“In a thunderstorm?” Douglas pointed out. 

“He did look awfully tired last night,” Carolyn said. “Maybe he just slept in his van.”

“Arthur,” Douglas said, “come with me. Hopefully our Captain is merely dozing in his very roomy transit van and with a little coffee and some breakfast will be ready to fly.”

 

Martin was not dozing in his van; Martin’s van did in fact contain a very obvious lack of Martin. Douglas frowned, peering through the windows. The van didn’t contain Martin’s flight bag or jacket either.

“Douglas,” said Arthur. “If Skip’s not on GERTI and not in the portacabin and not at his house, and his van’s here, then where is he? He’s never been late.He wouldn’t miss the chance to fly for anything.”

Douglas looked down at the driver’s side door and felt a chill run down his spine when he saw Martin’s keys still in the door lock, complete with their miniature Spitfire keyring. The door was still locked. Arthur walked around to stand beside him.

“Douglas,” Arthur asked again,” Why doesn’t Skip have his keys?” His voice sounded very small and worried.

Douglas pocketed Martin’s keys, feeling the need to keep them safe until he could return them to Martin. “I don’t know, Arthur,” he replied. “But I think something’s happened to our Skipper.”

 

Arthur’s lower lip trembled for a moment, and Douglas thought he was going to cry.

“We need to find Skip,” Arthur said.

“Indeed we do,” Douglas agreed. “I can’t fly GERTI by myself to Ankara on Wednesday, for one,” he said. Douglas pulled out his phone and dialed Carolyn’s number.

“Have you found him?” Carolyn asked.

“No,” replied Douglas. “He’s not in his van. His keys were though, in the driver’s side door. Something’s rotten in the state of Denmark, Carolyn. We need to cancel our flight today.”

There was long pause before Carolyn replied.

“Fine. I’ll tell Mrs. Herrington we’ve had a mechanical problem and can’t fly. Hopefully she’ll be too drunk to care.”

“Good,” said Douglas. “Arthur and I are going to see if we can find anywhere else Martin might be. It hasn’t been twenty-four hours yet, and I don’t think we should call the police unless we absolutely have to.” The last thing Douglas needed was a nosy police detective uncovering his little side operation in the course of a missing persons investigation.

“Don’t think I don’t know about that case of fish you have in the office, Douglas Richardson,” Carolyn replied. “But, I agree with you about the police. I’ll drive over to Martin’s flat and see if he’s there. You and Arthur keep looking around the airfield. For all we know he fell asleep in the tower while he was watching planes taxi.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” muttered Douglas. “Phone me if you find him. We’ll poke around here.”


	3. Chapter 3

Whoever was flying this plane was horrible at it, Martin realized as the plane slewed wildly across a runway that felt like it hadn’t been resurfaced since the war. The landing was so violent that Martin’s head thumped against the floor. It was one more little pain in a sea of discomfort. Martin had no sense of time; since he’d regained consciousness, he’d made it through almost two hundred pages of the operations manual in his head as way of keeping his mind off of his anxiety and aching joints. 

The engines spooled down, and Martin heard footsteps coming towards him. He forced his body to relax in hopes that his captors wouldn’t realize he was awake. It worked too well: the kick in his ribs was clearly intended to wake the dead.

“Eh, you alive?” a gruff, heavily-accented voice asked. “Wakey wakey.” Martin groaned and flinched away from the kick but couldn’t actually move very far. The blindfold was pulled away, and Martin squinted at the sudden brightness. As his eyes adjusted, his captor came into view. The man was dressed in an olive-green flightsuit with no distinguishing features apart from a long knife strapped to his thigh. Martin was certain the man’s heavy boot had left a dent in his ribs. 

Martin could see now that he was laying on the floor of a small plane, cuffed to a seat rail. 

“Let me go,” Martin said, his voice coming out as a hoarse croak. He really needed some water. His captor crouched down and reached for Martin’s hands. Martin held still as the man unlocked the cuffs and then yanked him upright by his collar. Martin’s shoulders and wrists burned after being held at such an awkward angle for hours. The man motioned for him to stand, and Martin slowly stretched his legs, wincing as his knees popped.

“Up,” said the man. Martin shook his head. He doubted he could push himself off the floor with his arms all pins-and-needles.

“Up,” said the man again, and instead of waiting for Martin to comply, he simply grabbed his shirtfront and hauled him to his feet. Martin’s legs felt wobbly, but they held him when the man let go. Martin leaned against the bulkhead behind him and rubbed at his sore wrists. His kidnapper thrust a bottle of water under his nose, and Martin took it and drank, the cool liquid a relief on his dry throat. 

“Thanks,” Martin said, indicating the water. His captor said nothing. Martin wondered if he spoke much English. Martin’s relief was short-lived, however, because as soon as he finished the water, his kidnapper yanked him forward by the elbow and spun him around, pinning both his wrists at the small of his back. Martin’s eyes prickled with involuntary tears of pain as his shoulders were once more pulled back and the handcuffs snapped around his wrists. 

“We go now,” said the man, giving Martin a shove toward the door. Martin stumbled, but the man pulled him upright before he could nosedive into a bulkhead. “Walk,” he ordered, punctuating his command with an open-handed smack to the back of Martin’s head. Martin bit his lip hard, and forced himself to put one foot in front of the other until the was out of the plane and standing on the tarmac. 

Martin didn’t recognize his surroundings at all: nothing about the overcast sky and grey, muddy airfield looked familiar. It was chilly, and Martin shivered in his spring jacket. His kidnapper pulled out a mobile phone and began a terse, low-voiced conversation in Russian. Martin used the man’s distraction to take a good look around the airfield, trying to commit every detail to memory. 

The airfield lacked any distinct characteristics; a few planes were parked nearby, and Martin could see that they were almost all cargo planes, probably former military, given their drab olive paint jobs. Any identifying markings were in Cyrillic. The perimeter fence was topped with several rows of razor wire, and armed guards roved up and down the fence line.

Martin stood in front of a portacabin much like the one that housed MJN. To his left was the only remarkable thing about this airfield: a Lockheed-McDonnell 312, the cargo variant of the plane he flew almost every day. She looked like a sadder, less-loved version of GERTI. Martin was shocked to see one-- very few of them had been made, and even fewer of them were still in service. He couldn’t believe his captors had actually found someone qualified to fly one. The plane he’d arrived in was a small charter with a British registration number. His kidnapper had left him standing under the wing, and Martin wished he could at least wrap his arms around himself against the cold.

His captor finished his call and the door to the portacabin opened. Another man, also dressed in military fatigues, walked down the stairs and stood in front of Martin. He was nearly as tall as Douglas, with cropped blond hair and stubble on his jaw. His eyes were sharp and dark, and he carried both a pistol and a knife on his belt. Fear coiled up in Martin’s stomach; anything could happen to him here and he doubted his body would ever be recovered.

“Welcome, Mr. Crieff,” said the blond man in Russian-accented English. “We have not been properly introduced. I am Dimitri. Do you like my airfield?” 

“I-it’s nice,” Martin stammered, unable to think of anything else to say. 

“No it’s not, but it serves its purpose very well. Do you know what we do here, Mr. Crieff?”

“Park...planes?” Martin answered. Dimitri chuckled.

“Yes, we do that. We also fly them, sometimes,” he said. “We fly things that many people need but that, for whatever reason, they cannot purchase through the usual channels. You understand?” Martin nodded. Suddenly the whole atmosphere made a lot more sense, with its plethora of nondescript cargo planes and heavily armed staff. This made Douglas’ smuggling seem like a child’s game. Dimitri reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes and box of matches. Martin hadn’t smoked in years, but suddenly he wanted a cigarette badly, just to take the edge off his fear. Dimitri lit up, then looked at Martin. 

“Do you smoke, Mr. Crieff?” he asked.

Martin shook his head. 

“Ah, well, you look as though you could use one anyway.” He offered Martin a cigarette, then seemed to remember that Martin couldn’t take it with his hands cuffed behind him. He stepped closer and Martin flinched. Dimitri held his cigarette to Martin’s lips and Martin took a deep drag and then another, the hit of smoke and nicotine spreading warmly through his chest. 

“Better?” asked Dimitri. Martin nodded. 

“Now,” said Dimitri. “You would like to know why you’re here, yes?” Martin nodded, afraid to speak. Dimitri’s vicious backhand was sudden, and Martin nearly went sprawling.

“It is in your best interest to answer my questions, Mr. Crieff,” Dimitri said. Martin regained his balance and licked dry lips. His head was ringing, and his cheek felt hot and numb. Martin felt blood trickling from where Dimitri’s signet ring had struck his cheekbone. Dimitri wiped his knuckles on his trousers.

“Y-yes, I want to know why I’m here,” Martin said, hating that all it had taken to make him obey was a little pain. 

“I need you to do something for me,” Dimitri replied. “You possess a unique set of skills, Captain Crieff. Did you know that there are only five people in the world who are qualified to fly a Lockheed-McDonnell 312?”

Martin didn’t know that, actually, although it didn’t surprise him.

“W-well, there were only about thirty-five or so of them produced, and most of them are probably out of service by now, so it would make sense,” Martin managed to say. 

“Very good Mr. Crieff. You, of course are one of these people.” 

“Of course I would be,” Martin muttered to himself. Years of training and failed exams and all it had gotten him was a set of skills that were apparently highly valued by no one except Russian smugglers.

“Why me?” Martin asked, forcing himself to look Dimitri in the eye. Dimitri finished his cigarette and flicked the butt away. He shrugged as he lit another cigarette.

“You were the easiest person to recruit, so to speak. We didn’t think anyone would miss you.”

“You mean besides the airline I fly for?” Martin replied. Dimitri’s words were meant to hurt, but he knew he needed to stay calm.

“I think a single charter plane hardly qualifies as an airline, Mr. Crieff. Don’t worry, we just need you for one run and then we will return you, brand new in packaging.”

“You kidnapped me to make one flight? Why?”

“Our original pilot met with some... unfortunate circumstances. We’re going to retire the plane anyway, but we need someone to make one delivery in her before we do. So we had to borrow you,” Dimitri explained, and the way he emphasized _unfortunate_ made Martin very nervous.

“I won’t do it,” Martin said. “I won’t be coerced into flying depleted uranium into Iran, or whatever this is about.” 

“It’s not so dramatic as that, Mr. Crieff. Just an easy cargo flight to Moscow and then we’ll put you on a private flight back to Fitton. We won’t even tell you what you’ll be flying, since you’re so worried. I don’t think you have very much choice. It’s only one delivery, and you will be paid.” 

“Will it be a private flight like the one here? Where I’m drugged and treated like cargo?” Martin’s anger was getting the better of him.

“Only if we decide it’s necessary,” Dimitri said. “Who knows, maybe you’ll decide you like working for us? Certainly pays well.” Dimitri’s smile had entirely too many teeth in it to be friendly.

“Let me go,” Martin said. “I don’t want anything to do with this. You can’t just go around kidnapping pilots to solve your staffing problems!” Martin scolded himself inwardly for losing his composure, but he was exhausted, hungry, and had just been drugged and kidnapped. Still, a Captain needed to be able to stay calm under pressure.

Dimitri’s chuckle surprised Martin.

“You’re very funny, Mr. Crieff. However, you do not make decisions about my business, I do. Pyotr, get Captain Crieff ready for our flight tonight. And leave his face alone, I like it.”

Pyotr, the huge jumpsuited man who’d flown Martin to Russia, grabbed Martin by the arm.

“We go now,” he said, and marched Martin behind the portacabin.

 

A thorough search of Fitton airfield, Martin’s flat, the ATC tower, Martin’s van, GERTI, and the nearby field that was excellent for plane-spotting failed to turn up any sign of Martin Crieff. Douglas was trying not to let his concern show for Arthur’s sake, but he was well and truly worried. Something had happened to Martin; Martin wouldn’t just leave his keys in the van door, or not come in to work without calling. He and Arthur met Carolyn back at GERTI.

“Nothing?” Carolyn asked. Douglas shook his head.

“It would seem our Captain has vanished,” Douglas said, trying to keep his tone light. Carolyn frowned, not her usual frown of annoyance or disapproval at whatever silly game Douglas and Martin were playing, but the scowl Douglas only saw when she was truly worried. He hadn’t seen it since St. Petersburg.

“When you saw him last night, did he say anything unusual? Did he seem upset?” Douglas asked. He didn’t think Martin was the type to contemplate suicide, but you never really could know everything about a person.

“Nothing. He fell asleep on the futon and I woke him and sent him home. As far as I knew, that’s where he went,” Carolyn said.

“Except he didn’t. I don’t think Martin made it home at all. His keys were still in the driver’s side door of his van. The door’s locked; his stuff isn’t in there. He made it to his van but not actually into his van,” Douglas said. 

“Douglas, you’re brilliant,” Arthur said. “Like that detective on telly, you know, the one who figures out the big mystery by looking at all those little things. Maybe we should try to be detectives to find Skip. Would there be more clues in his van?”

“You know, Arthur, that’s really not a bad idea. Maybe there would be something useful in his van, and I do have his keys.”


	4. Chapter 4

Douglas unlocked Martin’s van and poked his head in. Nothing seemed out of place or unusual. The van was neat, without even a stray petrol station receipt or empty coffee cup. The sat nav was still in the center console and the glove box contained nothing but neatly folded maps and the registration. Arthur stuck his head in from the passenger side door and looked at Douglas. 

“Everything looks normal, Douglas,” Arthur said. “Skip’s stuff isn’t here though. Not even his hat. Don’t you think he would have put it in his van if he’d been in it? ”

“Yes, I do. Carolyn said his bag wasn’t at his flat either,” Douglas said.

“Nothing back here,” Carolyn said, stepping out from the back of the van and letting Douglas give her a hand down.

“Arthur, get off the ground,” Carolyn scolded as Arthur laid down on his stomach to look under the van.

“No, Mum, a good detective looks at everything,” Arthur protested.

”And has the good detective found anything on the ground?” Douglas asked.

“Actually...” Arthur trailed off. “Um, Douglas... what’s the rule again about what to do if you find a gun? Are you supposed to leave it alone, or are you supposed to pick it up first and see if it’s loaded?”

“Arthur, what are you talking about?” demanded Carolyn. Douglas knelt down and looked under the van. Sure enough, a slick-looking nine-millimeter handgun lay on the ground. Douglas felt his stomach sink. On the other side of the van, Arthur met Douglas’ eyes.

“I think we should call the police, Douglas. I think Skip’s in trouble.”

 

The police didn’t seem terribly interested in a missing airline pilot, but they took a statement from Arthur, Carolyn and Douglas anyway, and bagged the handgun for evidence. 

“Not very much to go on, the rain yesterday would have washed away sign of a struggle, if there was one,” the tired-looking detective told Douglas and Carolyn. “ He probably just got tired of it all and buggered off somewhere. We’ll look into it though.”

“That’s unacceptable,” Carolyn snapped. “I am trying to run a business here, and I need my Captain back as soon as possible. I suggest you make this case a priority.” 

“I understand, ma’am. We’ll do everything we can, but we had two murders come in last night and a string of break-ins on Main street,” the detective explained, as though Carolyn would be convinced these things were more important than her missing pilot.

Carolyn pulled herself up to her full height opened her mouth to reply. Douglas recognized the signs of an imminent tongue-lashing. He stepped between her and the detective. 

“Excuse us,” he said politely.

Douglas gently took Carolyn by the arms and turned so they could speak privately. Carolyn looked furious, and he could feel her quivering with anger.

“Carolyn,” Douglas said quietly. “I know you’re worried about Martin. We all are. And if the police won’t make him a priority, I’ll be damned sure that we do. There’s no reason we can’t do a little detective work ourselves,” he said. 

“Alright,” she said, pulling herself up a little straighter. “But where do we start? It’s not as though Martin left us a trail of breadcrumbs.”

“No, but I did overhear the police talking about that gun we found. It doesn’t have any serial numbers, but it’s Russian-made. Unusual, don’t you think?”

Carolyn raised an eyebrow. “No serial numbers?”

“Yes, they’ve been removed. Filed off,” Douglas said. Arthur walked over to join them, having finished his lesson in how to safely handle a gun. He looked sadder than Douglas had ever seen him.

“The police can’t find Skip,” he said, and Douglas thought Arthur might start crying. 

“We know,” said Douglas. “That’s why we’re going to. I was telling your mother that I overhead the police talking about that gun we found. It’s Russian, and stolen. Now, I wonder if any Russian planes have landed at Fitton in the last few days?”

“Oh, that’s brilliant, Douglas! We should ask Carl first. He’s got an amazing memory. He remembers every plane that’s landed here!” Arthur said.

“Really?” asked Douglas. “That’s an interesting talent. Carolyn, you coming with us?”

Carolyn shook her head. “I have to go try and reschedule our flights to what we can do with one pilot until Martin turns up, and apologize profusely to the clients we have to cancel.”

“Oh, will you be groveling? I do hate to miss that,” Douglas said.

“Only if I am required to in order to keep our clients,” Carolyn replied. 

“Well, feel free to join us when you’re done. Arthur, let’s go buy Carl a drink.”

 

When Martin was eight years old, Nathan Smiley had stolen his briefcase, thrown it on the roof of the science block, given him a clip ‘round the ear, and kicked him in the shin. Martin had gone crying to Simon that Nathan had beaten him up. Simon had laughed at Martin for crying over his very minor injuries, and then punched Nathan in the nose.

Now, at thirty-five, Martin fully understood what it meant to be beaten up.

“You do what Dimitri says,” Pyotr said, and backhanded him. Martin tasted blood where it dribbled down from his nose. Martin stumbled back, falling inelegantly on his arse without his arms free to regain his balance. He landed awkwardly on his hands and felt something in his left hand pop. Pain raced up his arm, intense enough that it made him queasy. 

He shuffled to his knees and tried to stand, but Pyotr kicked him hard in the ribs and sent him sprawling. Martin’s vision dimmed and he managed to pull in a few sobbing breaths before Pyotr kicked his hip to turn him over. Blood from his nose trickled down the back of his throat. Martin bit his lip against a groan of pain and tried to curl up around his middle while keeping and pressure off of his injured hand. 

Pyotr grabbed him by the collar and hauled him up, slamming him against the wall of the portacabin. What little breath Martin had was knocked out of him and he slumped to the ground, his vision swimming. He felt the pull of vertigo as his inner ear tried and failed to cope with the dizziness. He debated simply letting himself black out, maybe then Pyotr would leave him alone. He pulled his knees up to protect his chest and rested his head on them. Blood from his nose seeped into his trousers.

“Enough,” he groaned. “Please.” 

Pyotr grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked his head up, bringing involuntary tears to Martin’s eyes. 

“You fly?” Pyotr asked.

Martin coughed, still unable to catch his breath.

“I’ll fly.”

 

Pyotr dragged Martin into the portacabin and locked him in an empty office, presumably until they were ready to depart. His nose had stopped bleeding, and Martin didn’t think it was broken, although he was sure it wouldn’t look very nice in the morning. Martin’s ribs ached deeply where Pyotr had kicked him. He didn’t want to imagine what the bruises looked like. Martin was most concerned about his injured fingers, which sent pain stabbing all the way up his arm if he tried to move his hand. He guessed they were probably fractured, and he had no idea how he was supposed to fly with broken fingers.

He laid very still and tried to sleep, or at least doze despite his discomfort. He still had to fly tonight, and the last thing he wanted was to fall asleep at the controls. He was so exhausted that he did manage to drift off, and he didn’t wake until Pyotr came back at dusk and woke him with a kick to his ribs. 

“You fly now, Mr. Captain.”


	5. Chapter 5

Douglas slid Carl’s drink over to him and watched enviously as Carl sipped the very fine scotch. 

“Cheers,” he said, raising his own glass of pineapple juice.

“What brings you into the Hose and Hydrant?” asked Carl. Douglas supposed he was probably suspicious for good reason; the last time he’d talked to Carl it had been to convince him to give GERTI a priority landing so he could win a bet with Martin.

Arthur spoke while Douglas still had a mouthful of juice. “Well, we wanted to know if any Russian planes have been here lately, because Skip-”

“Thought he saw an old Russian cargo liner land the other day and couldn’t believe it didn’t overshoot the runway,” Douglas cut in smoothly. He gave Arthur a stern look. Carl raised a bushy eyebrow.

“Russian plane? No, our runway’s not long enough for a big freighter,” Carl said. “We had a bloke try to land one once, about ten years ago. Told him he wasn’t going to make it, but he didn’t believe me. Took two days to get his plane out of the mud. Ruined our fence, too.”

“Why’d he try to land if you said he wouldn’t make it?” Arthur asked.

“Oh, something about how he needed an emergency landing because they had smoke in the cockpit. Like I’ve never heard that one before,” Carl said, rolling his eyes. Douglas was suddenly very interested in the bits of pulp in his juice glass.

“Well, I guess Skip was wrong about that Russian plane. That’s weird though, he’s never wrong about planes,” Arthur said, wisely changing the subject.

“We did have a Russian bloke take off yesterday, though. Could barely understand him on the radio. He seemed like he was in a hurry. British plane, not Russian,” Carl said, and took another deep drink of scotch.

“Any idea where he was flying to?” Douglas asked.

“Petrozavodsk,” Carl replied. 

“Petro...what?” asked Arthur.

“Russia,” replied Douglas.

“Brilliant!” said Arthur. “Now we can go look for-”

“The plane Martin thought he saw the other day,” Douglas finished for him. He dug a few notes out of his pocket and put them on the bar.

“Have another on us Carl, and you have a lovely evening.”

 

“Why did you tell Carl that Martin saw a Russian plane?” Arthur asked Douglas.

“Because Carl doesn’t need to know that we’ve temporarily misplaced our Captain,” Douglas replied. 

“Oh, right,” Arthur said. “I was worried. Martin never gets planes wrong. We even played this game once at that hotel in Alexandria where I described pictures to him and he got them all right. Too bad you weren’t there, Douglas, it was great.”

“Yes, it’s a shame I missed out,” Douglas said. “Next time, maybe. Arthur, did you say that Martin got a new phone?”

“Oh, yeah. He finally got an iPhone. Mum’s paying for it because she says she needs to be able to get a hold of him quickly, but I think I wasn’t supposed to tell you that,” Arthur said.

“Probably not,” Douglas replied. He pulled out his own phone and dialed Carolyn’s number.

“Have you found him?” Carolyn asked, before he could even say hello.

“No, but I know he’s in Russia and I think we may even be able to find out where,” Douglas said. 

“How are you going to do that?” Carolyn asked.

“I need to borrow your laptop,” Douglas said. “See you back at the office.”

 

Pyotr walked Martin out to the plane Martin was to fly. It was a stripped-down Lockheed-McDonnell 312, modified to carry cargo and extra fuel. Martin was starting to think that he had fallen into some alternate universe where he became a smuggler and flew illegal cargo instead of posh private clients. Martin couldn’t read the plane’s tail fin, but he had started to think of her simply as un-GERTI. She looked fit enough, and Martin watched as the last of several nondescript crates were loaded into the cargo bay.

Pyotr unlocked Martin’s handcuffs and Martin massaged his sore shoulders. Dimitri met Martin and Pyotr under the wing. Martin forced himself to stand up straight since it gave him a couple more inches in height. Dimitri looked Martin over, drawing thoughtfully on his ever-present cigarette.

“Ready to fly, Captain?” he asked Martin, smoke curling from his nose and mouth. “Or are you still morally opposed?”

“You haven’t given me much choice in the matter,” Martin said through clenched teeth, keeping his eyes straight ahead.

“Yes, Pyotr is very persuasive that way,” Dimitri said, and he stepped closer to Martin. He reached out to grasp Martin’s jaw and turned his face into the light to examine his bruised nose.

He snapped something in Russian at Pyotr and indicated Martin’s nose, looking angry. Pyotr shrugged and replied.

“Lucky your nose isn’t broken,” Dimitri said. He ran his thumb over the cut he’d made earlier on Martin’s cheekbone, admiring his work before patting Martin’s bruised cheek. Martin flinched away. Dimitri’s hand closed around Martin’s throat and he pulled Martin close enough that he could smell the tobacco on his breath. 

“You’ll do as Pyotr says on this flight, and you’ll make it home safely. Any trouble, you won’t.” Dimitri punctuated his last word with a squeeze before he released Martin. Martin coughed and choked, his eyes streaming. Martin took a deep, shaky breath and wiped his face on his sleeve.

Dimitri gave an order to Pyotr in Russian, and Pyotr grabbed Martin by the arm and pushed him toward the stairs leading up to the cockpit. Pyotr followed Martin into the cockpit of the cargo plane and they took their seats. Martin was grateful to sit down in an actual chair. He was so sore he could barely move, and his injured fingers were showing all of the classic signs of broken bones. Martin had to force himself not to look at them. At least the handcuffs were gone, though he now had ugly marks around each wrist. 

To Martin’s surprise, his flight bag and hat were already strapped in behind the captain’s chair. Martin had given them up as lost when he’d been kidnapped, and it was comforting to see them here in an unfamiliar plane. At least he would have his own charts and checklists instead of having to make do with whatever the smugglers provided. It was almost too much to hope that his phone was still in his bag-- surely his captors had searched his belongings and taken it to prevent him from calling for help.

“I need to get my charts out of my flight bag,” he said, unsure if Pyotr understood him or not. Pyotr gave a slight nod, and Martin reached into his bag to pull out his checklists. As was his habit, he checked that his license was still safe in its pouch in the inside pocket. They had searched his flight bag; he could tell by the way some of his maps had been misfiled. Martin noticed they had taken his old, ruined phone from its place beside his license. He’d intended to recycle it but hadn’t gotten around to it.

His maps seemed mostly untouched apart from the first few in the bag, and Martin wondered just how thorough they had been. He dug to the bottom of his bag where he had stashed his new phone, hoping that his kidnappers hadn’t bothered to look through the thick bundle of maps and charts, or had assumed that his old phone was the only one he had. He almost couldn’t believe it when he saw his phone laying in the bottom of his bag, exactly where he’d left it. Martin glanced over to Pyotr, but found the man’s eyes still fixed on him.

Martin made a show of rifling through his charts, despite the fact that they were in perfect order, and managed to glance at his phone. It still had a charge, and he could see that he’d missed numerous calls and texts from everyone at MJN. He pulled out a sheaf of papers with his bad hand and used them to hide his other hand as he dug out his phone. He unlocked the screen and quickly replied to one of Arthur’s texts.

_Flying to Moscow. Follow my phone. Password is GERTI_

He didn’t have time to type more, so he sent the message in hopes that it would somehow get through. He stuffed his papers back into his bag, making sure the phone was well-hidden.

He turned back to his checklists and began the checks, reading them aloud to himself when he realized Pyotr wasn’t going to help. He guessed the man was only here to keep him from running away and to communicate with the tower. He finished the pre-flight checks and got to the walk-around.

“I need to go look at the plane,” he said to Pyotr. Pyotr shook his head.

“Dimitri says plane is good. You stay,” he said. Martin huffed out a breath. 

“Well, hopefully he didn’t miss anything important,” Martin said. “Would you like to tell the tower we’re ready?”

Pyotr seemed to understand that, and after a brief exchange with the tower, Martin was given clearance to start the engines and taxi to the runway. In the late-afternoon sun, the runway looked barely-usable, and Martin wondered if standard takeoff procedure here included the directions “hope for the best.”

The takeoff went better than anticipated, and Martin was grateful that the instrumentation was in English.The concentration required to fly helped take him mind off of his discomfort, although he would have done nearly anything for a hot cup of coffee and some ice for his hand. He put in their coordinates and settled in for the flight to Moscow.


	6. Chapter 6

“I’ve got a text from Skip!” Arthur exclaimed.

“What does it say? Is he alright?” Carolyn asked, trying to grab his phone.

“It doesn’t make any sense. It says: ‘Flying to Moscow. Follow my phone. Password is GERTI.’ What does that mean?” Arthur asked.

“It means Martin’s not as big of an idiot as we usually assume him to be,” Douglas said. He booted up Carolyn’s laptop and called up the phone-tracking website. All it required was an e-mail address and password. Arthur and Carolyn looked over his shoulders.

“What’s Martin’s e-mail address?” Douglas asked.

Carolyn read it off for him.

“We need Skip’s password, though,” Arthur said. “It’s probably not just ‘password.’”

“No, it’s not ‘password’,” Douglas said. “He gave it to us.” Douglas typed _GERTI_ into the password field. It was rejected.

“That has to be it,” Douglas said. “Let me see that text, Arthur.” Arthur handed over his phone.

“I told you, it says ‘GERTI,’” Arthur said.

“Yes, dear, but Martin was probably in a hurry when he typed the message. Did he make a mistake?” asked Carolyn.

“No, it’s spelled right,” said Arthur. “But... if Skip was in a hurry, maybe he didn’t type the whole thing?”

“Arthur, you may have accidentally cracked this case,” Douglas said, and he typed in Martin’s password. The screen unlocked, and a map began to load.

“Brilliant!” Arthur said. “How did I solve the case?”

“Martin’s password isn’t _GERTI,_ it’s _Golf Echo Romeo Tango India,_ ” Douglas explained.

“He would have a ridiculous password,” Carolyn said.

“Look, it’s found his phone,” Arthur said, pointing to the blinking green dot on the screen. Douglas watched the screen for a moment as the dot moved steadily east.

“Hey, chief,” he drawled, looking at Carolyn. “I might be wrong, but I think Martin’s in an aeroplane, flying over Russia. This leaves us short one pilot. I think we should follow this pinging green dot and find our Captain. How does that sound to you?”

“Arthur, text Martin and tell him we’re leaving as soon as possible. Douglas, get GERTI ready and file a flight plan,” Carolyn said. “We’re flying to Moscow.”

 

_Wednesday_

“Good morning, comrades,” Douglas said over the cabin address. “This is comrade Richardson. Welcome to the 5:17 flight from Fitton to Moscow. I’ll be operating out, back and in the middle. My co-pilot, who will be doing nothing except reading off the checklists and sitting very still, is comrade Shappey. We will be stopping in St. Petersburg to take on fuel and have a snack, and then we will resume our regular express service to Moscow, where we will be collecting our missing comrade Crieff.” 

Douglas knew that what they were doing was both illegal and fairly reckless. He didn’t care; he’d already lost his promising career once over something far less significant, and if he was going to put his license on the line again, he was going to make it count. 

“Douglas, do you think we’re going to get in trouble?” Arthur asked.

“Probably not. Always a chance, though,” he replied. “The CAA doesn’t much like single-pilot operation on long haul flights. I doubt we’ll attract much attention,” he added.

“It’s just... if we’re going to get in trouble and lose our jobs, I’m glad we’re doing it to help Skip,” Arthur said. 

“Well, Arthur, at this point in my life I haven’t got much left to lose, and if I’m going to lose it, it may as well be while getting our ridiculous Skipper un-kidnapped,” Douglas said.

“Yeah, you and Skip are brilliant like that,” Arthur said. “Even though sometimes you don’t always agree, you’d always fly to Russia if one of you was in trouble. I know you won’t ever say it, so you don’t have to.” 

“That’s...very observant of you, Arthur. Fancy a game to pass the time?” he asked, feeling like the conversation had gotten too personal.

“Oh yeah! How about ‘The Minister’s Cat’?”

 

Martin was rather proud of his landing in Moscow, and thought it was too bad Douglas wasn’t around to see it. Pyotr had said nothing the entire flight, and Martin had resorted to making up fake Russian names for the instruments in his head to keep himself from falling asleep. Martin cut off the engines and finished his post-landing checklist.

“Now what?” he asked Pyotr.

“We unload. You stay here. Then we go back.”

“How long will that take?” Martin asked.

“Hour to unload, hour to reload. We wait,” Pyotr replied. Martin fidgeted in his seat, trying to stretch his bruised, tired muscles. His hand was hurting badly, and the pain and lack of sleep made him short-tempered. His eyes burned with fatigue and he felt like he was viewing the world through a grainy grey filter. He was too tired to fly, and he was injured; he shouldn’t be anywhere near an aeroplane in his current state. He felt disgusting; his shirt had bloodstains in it and he didn’t want to think about how bad he probably smelled. He was miserable, and he didn’t even have the energy to sit down and cry.

Crying wouldn’t help him anyway. He was the Captain, and the Captain had to make rational, clear decisions, even if his head ached and his fingers were broken and he was exhausted. He needed to think, and make a plan for how he was going to get away from his captors.

He wondered if Arthur had gotten his text. Maybe his friends would come rescue him. He twisted in his seat and made a show of filing his checklists away as he retrieved his phone. He had one new message.

_we’re coming for you skip_

Martin did cry then, just for a moment, the tears welling up before he could stop them. Martin put it down to exhaustion that he would cry so easily. His friends were coming, and they would take him home, where he could have a hot shower and a cup of coffee and have his hand seen to so that it would stop hurting. And then he could sleep for as long as he wanted. 

He calculated the time difference and estimated that MJN would be about four hours behind. His optimism melted as he realized they still wouldn’t get to Moscow in time to land, hire a car, and get to this middle-of-nowhere airfield on the outskirts of Moscow to find him. He looked over his shoulder and saw that Pyotr was fiddling with something on the floor. Martin quickly slipped his phone into his inside jacket pocket.

Martin slumped down in his seat, and thought about how he could delay their flight to give MJN enough time to find him. He closed his eyes and called up GERTI’s schematics in his mind. He needed to disable something small and innocuous that would still cause a significant delay. Keeping his eyes closed, his slid his hand under the console until he found the row of breakers for the various warning systems. He counted in three from the left and tripped the breaker,which caused several lights on the console to illuminate.

Martin glanced at Pyotr, who was frowning at the sudden malfunctions.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Looks like we’ve got some kind of malfunction,” Martin said, pretending to check the diagnostics. Pyotr was a pilot, but Martin was counting on the fact that he was unfamiliar with this plane and didn’t speak English to make his plan convincing. 

“I think I know what the problem is,” Martin said. “This happens all the time on my plane. I need to go down into the avionics bay, though.” He pointed to the floor hatch. Pyotr gave him a hard look, but eventually nodded.

“You fix,” he said. “Hurry.”

“Do my best,” Martin said, opening the hatch. He knelt down and peered inside, looking for the fuse box that controlled the warning lights. He found it, and pulled the fuses for the radio and the warning lights on the console. The lights dimmed and went out, giving the appearance that he’d fixed the problem. It wouldn’t be until they tried to take off that he would have a radio problem that would hopefully take the engineers some time to troubleshoot. 

“All fixed,” Martin told Pyotr. “Just a blown fuse.” Pyotr nodded.

“You sit until we go,” he said, pointing to the pilot’s seat. Martin sighed and sat down, hoping to get a small nap in while he waited for their cargo to be loaded.


	7. Chapter 7

“Brilliant landing, Douglas,” Arthur said as Douglas shut GERTI down. They had made it to Moscow in good time with the help of a tailwind. 

“Thank you, Arthur. It was one of my better ones.”

“Do you need me to read you another checklist? I promise I’ll get the right one this time,” Arthur said.

“I think I can take it from here,” Douglas said. “The plane is on the ground and turned off, that’s about all the checks we need right now.”

Carolyn opened the flight deck door.

“Are we ready?” she asked. “Is our car here?”

“We get a car?” Arthur asked.

“I called in a favor from an old pilot friend of mine who lives in Moscow,” Douglas explained. “He agreed to lend us a car, no questions asked.”

“Are you even licensed to drive in Russia?” Carolyn asked. Douglas shrugged.

“Can’t be that different from driving in Britain,” he said, avoiding the question. “Did you put Martin’s coordinates into the sat nav, Carolyn?” he asked as they exited the plane. A black car pulled up to their stand and the driver got out.

Douglas walked down the stairs and shook the driver’s hand.

“Thanks for helping us out, Niko,” he said, handing Niko a few boxes of expensive Turkish cigarettes.

“Any time, Douglas,” Niko said, handing Douglas the keys. “Call me if you need anything else.”

“Absolutely,” Douglas said. He opened the passenger’s side door for Carolyn and Arthur climbed into the back. Douglas slid behind the wheel and turned on the sat nav. The tracker on Martin’s phone indicated that he was only about a half hour away, at a tiny, private airfield. Niko had assured him that the car would be recognized by the security personnel without any problems. Douglas had known Niko for ages, but his friend was always vague about exactly what he did as a pilot. Douglas knew better than to ask.

Douglas put the car in gear and turned out of the airfield drive. He hoped they would find Martin in one piece.

 

Martin was trying to explain to the airfield’s engineer that the radio wasn’t working properly but wasn’t getting anywhere. This didn’t particularly bother him, as it was buying him time. However, Pyotr was getting angrier by the minute and his increasingly fragmented English was making it difficult for Martin to communicate with the engineer. 

“Our radio is broken,” Martin explained again, pointing to the transmitter. 

“Out,” the engineer said, shooing Martin and Pyotr off the flight deck. Martin took his bag with him.

“I need my charts,” Martin explained to Pyotr, hoping to ward off a beating. Pyotr said nothing, but shoved Martin hard out the door.

Martin stood out on the tarmac while Pyotr made an angry-sounding phone call. Martin turned his back to Pyotr and slid his phone out of his pocket. He had a new message from Douglas.

_Landed in Moscow, coming by car_. 

Martin risked a glance over his shoulder and saw that Pyotr was still on the phone. He replied to Douglas’ text:

_Hurry_

 

Douglas turned the car into the narrow drive to the airfield indicated on the sat nav. High fences topped with barbed wire on both sides gave the place a sinister feel. 

“Martin’s dot is really close, Douglas,” Arthur said, barely containing his excitement.

Douglas stopped at the electric gate, hoping he wouldn’t need some kind of special authorization to pass through. After a moment of waiting, the gate rattled open and Douglas pulled through. The airfield was very small, with a few cargo planes parked at their stands. 

“Look for Martin,” Douglas instructed Carolyn and Arthur.

“Should I call out if I see him?” Arthur asked. 

“Yes, Arthur, if you see a Martin, call out,” Douglas said.

“Douglas, look!” Arthur said. “It’s GERTI! What’s she doing here?”

“Arthur, that is not GERTI,” Carolyn said. 

“It really is, though. It looks just like her,” Arthur insisted. 

“Where is this mysterious GERTI-doppelganger?” Douglas asked.

“Right there, on the left,” Arthur said. Sure enough, a Lockheed-McDonnell 312 was parked on one of the far stands. 

“That’s a Russian cargo plane, Arthur. One of GERTI’s relatives, maybe but not our girl,” Douglas said gently.

“Then why is Skip with her?” Arthur asked, holding up Douglas’ iPad, where the green dot indicating Martin’s phone blinked right over where GERTI’s twin was parked.

 

Martin stood under un-GERTI’s wing and watched Pyotr and the engineer argue, neither of them paying any attention to Martin. The airfield was nearly deserted, and Martin wondered if he could sneak off while his minder was distracted. The engineer dragged Pyotr into the plane and Martin seized his chance. He pulled out his phone and rang Douglas. He was astonished when his first officer picked up.

_”Martin?!_ Douglas asked. “Is that really you?”

“It’s me,” Martin said. “Are you in Moscow?”

“We’re at the airfield now,” Douglas told him.

“Listen, I don’t know how much time I have. I’m with the Lockheed-McDonnell 312,” Martin said. 

“Martin, are you alright?” Douglas asked.

“I’m fine. Just hurry,” Martin said.

“I think I see you. We’re in a black BMW,” Douglas said. Martin watched as a black car idled along the access road. It flashed its lights at him. He checked over his shoulder and saw Pyotr and the engineer coming out of the plane. Martin ran for the car, expecting to be shot. He heard footsteps pounding behind him and he forced his aching muscles to run faster.

One of the passenger side doors opened, and Martin threw himself in, nearly landing in Arthur’s lap.

“Douglas, go!” Martin ordered as he watched Pyotr pull his gun. Douglas floored the accelerator and Martin was thrown hard against the seat. He smacked his injured hand against Arthur’s knee and the pain stunned him, his vision darkening around the edges.

“Skip!” Arthur exclaimed. “Are you okay?” Martin took deep breaths, waiting for the pain to become bearable again. Warm fingers closed around his wrist and Arthur’s hand pressed against his chest, holding him still.

“Oh Skip, this looks awful,” Arthur said, his fingers gently stroking against Martin’s bruised wrist as he looked at Martin’s swollen fingers. Martin sat up properly, cradling his injured hand in his lap. 

“I’m alright, Arthur,” he said.

“You don’t look very alright, Skip,” Arthur said, with a crease of concern between his eyebrows. “You look like you hurt a lot.”

Martin caught a glimpse of his face in the rear-view mirror and cringed at the mess of blood and bruises on his cheek and nose. Arthur was right, he looked dreadful.

“We’re taking you to hospital,” Douglas said. Martin leaned head against the seat and closed his eyes. He wanted to argue that he was fine, that he could wait until they got back to Fitton, but the adrenaline crash was hitting him hard, and he could barely keep his eyes open. 

“Take a little nap, Skip,” Arthur said, patting his knee. “We’ll wake you up when we get there.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has now been slightly edited to better tie up some loose ends.

Arthur nudged him awake when they got to the hospital, where Martin spent the next five hours being treated for cuts, bruises, and two broken fingers. He was glad the doctors and nurses didn’t ask too many questions about his injuries; when they did, he said he’d been in a fight and left it at that. His ring and pinky fingers were both broken, but the fractures were clean and Martin was assured that they would heal quickly. The nurse had raised an eyebrow at the bruises ringing both wrists, but Martin had ignored her. 

The painkillers he’d been given made him feel rather cloudy-headed, and he stumbled over a crack in the pavement on his way back to the car. Arthur caught his elbow and steadied him. Normally, Martin would have shaken him off but he was grateful for the support.

Arthur helped him into the car and Martin fell asleep almost immediately. The next time he woke, it was to Arthur calling his name.

“Hey, Skip, we’re here,” he said. “Douglas’ friend got us this nice hotel.”

Martin sat up, realizing with some embarrassment that he’d fallen asleep with his head on Arthur’s shoulder and Douglas’ jacket draped over him. The nap had revived him a bit, but he still felt like he could sleep for several days straight. 

“Morning, sunshine,” Douglas said. “Good nap?” Martin flushed and rubbed his face with his good hand, trying to wake up enough to haul himself out of the car.

“Sorry I fell asleep on you,” he said to Arthur. 

“Oh that’s okay, Skip. You didn’t drool too much and you looked really tired. I think Douglas took your picture though.”

“I did no such thing,” Douglas said. 

The hotel was far nicer than their usual lodgings-- Martin wondered just who Douglas knew that could get their rooms arranged on such short notice. He’d declined joining Douglas, Carolyn, and Arthur for dinner on the excuse that he would be awful company, and Carolyn made him promise he would get something to eat, even though he was too tired to think about food. Martin dropped his flight bag by the luxurious bed and headed for the shower. He stripped off his ruined, filthy uniform and examined himself in mirror. 

He looked wretched, with huge dark circles under his eyes and his face and torso mottled with bruises. The marks from the handcuffs in particular distressed him, as he couldn’t look at them without recalling the feeling of being restrained and helpless, and the absolute terror of waking up blind on an unfamiliar plane. 

Martin turned on the shower as hot as he could stand it and let the water pour over him, soothing the tension out of his shoulders and back. For the first time in three days he felt calm, his mind empty of the buzzing anxiety that had consumed him since he had been kidnapped. 

Martin scrubbed until he finally felt clean, and by the time he was done his eyes were trying to close on their own accord again. He dried off and fell into bed, and didn’t wake until Carolyn knocked on his door the next afternoon to tell him it was time to leave.

 

_Thursday_

“Ready to go home, chaps?” Arthur asked, as Douglas and Martin finished up the pre-flight checks. Martin felt slightly out-of-place in his own flight deck, lacking his uniform and sitting in the first-officer’s seat. 

“If I never see Russia again, I’ll be happy,” Martin said. Ever since he’d been rescued, he kept catching himself looking over his shoulder for lurking kidnappers, or flinching every time someone stepped too close to him. He tried to excuse his jumpiness as fatigue, but he was still terrified that Dimitri would come after him to permanently ensure his silence.

“Can you fly like that, Skip?” Arthur asked, pointing to Martin’s bruised, splinted fingers.

“I’m not flying so much as sitting here on standby and making sure Douglas doesn’t do anything he shouldn’t,” Martin explained. 

“Douglas let me be his copilot when we came to find you, Skip,” Arthur said proudly. “He let me read him checklists and everything. He wouldn’t let me touch anything though.”

“Considering that you managed to read me the post-landing checklist during takeoff, I think I made the right command decision,” Douglas said.

“You flew to Russia without a relief pilot?” Martin asked. “Douglas, that’s horrendously irresponsible,” he scolded.

“Yes, well,” Douglas said, fiddling with the heads-up-display. “My co-pilot wasn’t available. I had to make do. Anything’s possible with enough coffee. And what is autopilot for if not giving the Captain a break for a sandwich? I won’t tell the CAA if you don’t.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” Martin said, looking back at his checklists. He was incredibly touched that MJN had very nearly gone to the ends of the earth for him. He didn’t want to think about what would have happened to him, had his friends not be so determined to come to his rescue.

“Oh, I nearly forgot,” Douglas said, pulling out a folded British newspaper, no doubt taken from their hotel. “Interesting article in here today. Apparently the police back in Fitton noticed that the ballistics on the gun Arthur found under your van matched the bullets in a couple of murder victims that turned up in that seedy bar on High street.”

“Oh?” Martin asked.

“Indeed. Turns out the bar was a front for a server farm run by a smuggling ring. I believe you’ve met them?” Douglas held out the paper so that Martin could see Pyotr and Dimitri’s mugshots on the front page. 

_“International smuggling ring uncovered by small-town police,”_ Martin read aloud. Douglas was fiddling with the flight computer again.

“Douglas... you didn’t have anything to do with this, did you?” Martin asked as he watched Douglas check their coordinates for a third time. Douglas looked at him, doing his best innocent face.

“I may have made a phone call to an old friend of mine on the force, wherein I recounted a recent trip I took to a very interesting airfield just outside of Moscow,” Douglas said with a shrug. “I may have sent him some pictures too.”

Martin stared at the paper, and the realization that his kidnappers had been apprehended sunk in. Finally, he was safe. He felt dizzy with relief and he hoped Douglas didn’t notice how badly his hands were shaking.

“Any day now, gentlemen,” Carolyn called from the cabin, pulling Martin from his thoughts. “Mrs. Herrington phoned this morning. She still thinks it’s Monday and that we’re flying her to Rome as soon as we get back.”

“All ready to go, Sir?” Douglas asked.

“Not just yet,” replied Martin. “Arthur?”

“Yeah, Skip?”

“Coffee, please. And make it extra-terrible.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who read and commented. You're all too kind.
> 
>  
> 
> Link to original post on the Cabin Pressure meme:
> 
> http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/6625.html?thread=12174305#cmt12174305


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